


Walking Right Into It

by cloudycelebrations



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL the issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Stories for Bad People, Bucky Barnes as the Asset, Bucky thinks Steve is his handler, Cages, Collars, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Dogs, Flashbacks, Force-Feeding, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020, Internalized Victim Blaming, Just Asset Things, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, Past Torture, Past Violence, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sensory Deprivation, Steve just wants to hug Bucky, Stun Batons, THE DOG IS FINE, That means rape, Touch-Starved, Trash-colored lenses, Victim Blaming, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, but NOT the fun kind, eating issues, just Asset Abuse, sleep issues, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudycelebrations/pseuds/cloudycelebrations
Summary: Steve’s so happy to have Bucky back that he ignores some crucial signs that things are not going well.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Hydra Agents, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 21
Kudos: 81
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefilthiestpiglet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet/gifts).



> READ THE TAGS. I went all-out on this trash to please my handler, I mean, my HTP Holiday Gift Exchange giftee who requested certain trash delights which can be fun and sometimes therapeutic in fiction and are totally not okay in the real world. If you do not like Hydra Trash Party content or dark themes, please do NOT partake of this steaming garbage pile. My giftee’s delight is all I seek. 
> 
> For those who want more details to see if this trashy story has content that you can safely enjoy, I'm including spoiler-y warnings in the end notes. 
> 
> Thank you to mal, buckybleeds, and ZG for beta support, mal for ideas, and trash chat for trashy inspiration! This is definitely the naughtiest thing I have written.
> 
> I'm also using this story to fill 2 squares on my BTB 2020 card:  
> Chapter 1 is Morally Corrupt.  
> Chapter 2 is Undesirable Symbols.

Steve’s body is at war, again, this time with his mind. A small part of him can barely keep in the shock and thrill of having finally found Bucky, after such a long search. But there is a sinking fear, a weighted pit in his stomach, that this may be a dream or some elaborate trick. Throughout the journey to find Bucky, Steve still heard Fury’s gasping voice in his head, to trust no one. He saw blood on his apartment floor and heard gunshots through brick any time he closed his eyes after another day, week, month of fruitless searching. Yet somehow, now his reality is that Bucky made it through a year and a half of living on his own after breaking free from Hydra (he _broke free from Hydra_ , Steve's brain keeps reminding him. He's _here_.) Against all odds, he came back to himself and then came back to Steve. 

Well, kind of. He let himself be found, quiet but willing to follow Sam and Steve back to relative safety in New York. Steve has to concede that maybe the heavy feeling is that he’s exhausted from the psychological rollercoaster ride of chasing after Bucky, and looking anxiously forward to whatever trial the world has in store for him next. Sam has spent the last year telling him to moderate his expectations. This latest change in plans has sent all expectations out the window like claustrophobic birds and they scattered so far he lost track. He wonders desperately if he can be part of the life Bucky chooses now. 

Despite the grueling intensity of it all, he’s grateful to Bucky for everything: running away from Hydra, staying alive, finding himself, finally coming home. Maybe not for shooting him three times, but at least then the pain in his body matched the pain in his mind. He should feel fully relieved by the simple knowledge that he knows exactly where Bucky is and that he's not lost or cold anymore, here under his own power and choice, and able to start his new life. He’d take another few bullets for that. 

Steve tries his absolute hardest to welcome him back in comfort, and that means playing it casual, not overwhelming Bucky with anything. Not staring at him too much or offering him too many things. He won’t spook him with luxury or loud noises, so staying at Avengers Tower is not going to work out, for so many reasons. In a way, he's relieved about that. And thanks to help from Pepper, Steve kept up a humble apartment in Queens that he rarely visited, somewhere absolutely no one would go looking for him. That was his justification for not living in Brooklyn. Desperate times indeed. 

Bucky hasn’t said much since he was found less than 48 hours ago, just nodded his willingness to stay with Steve while they figured things out. Steve's been trying to give him space. He must be so worn out and taking it all in, maybe not entirely sure where he stands with Steve now. They have time to figure that out. Steve’s unsure if there’s a light of recognition in Bucky’s eyes as they get back to New York, and thinks he even sees the start of a smile as he looks at the outside of Steve’s temporary place. At least he hopes it'll be temporary; it's more of a hideout than a home. There’s just enough furniture inside to make it liveable on the off-chance he needed to lie low in the city, and it features subtle security measures effective enough to satisfy even Sam and Natasha. But he’s slept here fewer than ten nights in the last six months. 

He figures Bucky will need initial support from him and Sam, and after getting settled here, they’ll bring in other professionals as needed to help him get used to a life outside of Hydra and not-quite on the run. He's not sure how much Bucky remembers of their lives before and during the war, but maybe with time he'll remember all that they used to mean to each other. And it's already been years that Steve's waited, literal lifetimes; he can wait forever if it means having Bucky in his arms again, whether briefly or for good. He’ll take anything Bucky wants to give. But the sole fact of having Bucky within reach is worth everything. He has to remind himself he won't ask for more if it never comes. Getting Bucky readjusted won’t be easy, especially not in Queens, but a tiny voice in Steve’s head whispers that maybe, just maybe, the worst is finally over.

The apartment is dim even during mid-day, lit by tiny windows facing brick walls. Their steps echo as they walk in. Steve guides Bucky into the living room and considers hanging more art on the dull walls, lightly touching Bucky on the back as they move. Home sweet home, for now.

~

The Asset walks into Captain Rogers' safehouse just like it walked right into every lab, sat down in every maintenance chair, and pulled every trigger no matter what type of target was on the other end of the scope. Its handler always leads and it always follows. No questions, no doubt. The Asset deserves whatever it gets, because it walks right into it every time. It is perfectly obedient and versatile; with sufficient information, it can mold itself to please this new handler. Its innate ability to push down any amount of terror and show outward acceptance instead seems to endear the Captain to it already. Its extensive skillset includes performing typical expressions of acquiescence and smiling; it knows a handler may demand or look for that. It waits for further sensory input and orders, however coded they might come. 

It has been adrift in a storm of confusion for...how long? It must be months. Losing time at random intervals, it shifts in and out of the present. Its dreams alarm and disorient it into further malfunction. It remembers how to act, but not when or why. Its body is disobedient and traitorous, has developed strange urges throughout its dereliction of duty. It's obvious that it needs a handler to show it proper direction, correction, discipline, purpose. 

All signs point to Captain Rogers being a powerful, strong-willed handler. He's an agent who carries a dangerous shield and looks like he would be quick to anger and violent if not obeyed. The Asset has been watching the Captain for weeks from afar. It already knows this handler takes extreme risks; simply being unarmed around the unrestrained Asset with no backup is foolish and deadly. The punishments will likely be extraordinarily painful. 

They’re walking into a small room, taken up almost entirely by a brown couch. As the handler leads it, the Asset feels a sharp flood of anticipation and scans to identify the source: a large, warm hand on its lower back. The Asset suppresses a shiver. It must not respond aloud or react in any obvious way. It knows exactly how to interpret that command. Its skin tingles almost painfully and it comes to a complete stop, with its handler directly behind it. It patiently waits for the next touches to slide unstoppably around its middle and down its thighs. 

Inevitably it will be pushed to the floor, maybe stomped on as its handler takes up his position on the couch. The Asset finds this comfortingly familiar and knows exactly what to do, how to hold its hands down, how to keep its mouth open and hold its breath. It's already hard, trained to get ready this way immediately upon perceiving interest from its superiors. And everyone is superior to the Asset. 

It has not been touched by a person in over a year. Civilians go out of their way to avoid it. Only treasured objects are touched. And it has been discarded, abandoned, sought only by this rogue handler who goes by Steve Rogers. 

The Asset is ready to comply for its new handler. 

~

“Bucky? Are you okay? Hey...” Steve searches Bucky’s stance, frozen about a foot away from the couch. He stopped moving and is now looking at Steve with a question in his eyes. Is he too tired to speak? He's hardly said a word but Steve doesn't want to push.

Shit, it must be because he wasn’t supposed to touch Bucky’s back just then. There was a moment on the return flight in the back of a cargo plane when Steve realized just how much space he needed to give his friend. (Are they even still friends right now? Steve has no clue what is going through his mind.) It happened when he had casually patted the seat next to him. Bucky seemed to perk up and came over right away to take his seat, and Steve couldn’t help but put an arm around him automatically. It had felt like the right thing to do and he wanted it so bad... but Bucky tensed and shuddered as soon as Steve’s arm touched his shoulders. He quickly pulled it back and folded his hands between his legs, trying to play it cool and be less pushy. He had gotten up and found a different seat so Bucky could have his well-deserved space.

Steve reminds himself for the umpteenth time: the last thing Bucky needs is a clingy old friend bringing up bad memories. The fact is, Steve still has no idea what Bucky has gone through.

For long moments Bucky just stands there, doesn't speak or move towards the couch, so Steve analyzes further. He looks terribly drawn and tired, even compared to the glimpses he and Sam had gotten throughout the long search. There's no way he's not hungry, and in the brief day he's been with Bucky so far (or has it been two? They've been on the move so much, finally stopping to rest here. Time really blurs together now into one burst of BuckyIsHereNow), he can't remember seeing him eat. Steve himself hardly ate in the past twelve hours. Maybe that’s what the pit in his stomach is. That settles it; Steve is going to get them both some familiar foods to show Bucky he’s home now.

“Listen, how about you rest here and I’ll go get us something to eat? I think there’s some canned fruit in the cabinets and... Can’t say there’s anything edible in that fridge. Maybe some cottage cheese? On second thought, don't eat that; I'll be right back." He claps Bucky on the shoulder, winces as he realizes he probably shouldn’t do that either, and strides away before he can make Bucky uncomfortable again.

There’s a place nearby with hot deli sandwiches. He doesn't even need to put his shoes on; never bothered to take them off. He just pats his pants to make sure his wallet and keys are still there. Nearly out the door, he remembers to say, "Have a seat, make yourself at home, Buck.” 

~

The Asset understands the need to isolate and deprive a new tool such as itself of sound and attention so as not to spoil it. That single touch still sizzles on its back, the other on its shoulder; it wonders if the handler will touch it again or stopped due to disgust or fear. 

Perhaps the brief caresses were a taunt, mocking the greedy, squirming thing inside the Asset that makes it step right into painful blows to its face, failing to fight back just so someone will touch it, even in violence. It deserves to be hurt and so it seeks out the contact of flesh. 

What could it have done wrong for the Captain to leave? Perhaps it didn't offer itself up immediately, or show deference in the correct way. The rules change each time it is removed from cryo and it is punished for not knowing the new protocols. Is that why its handler didn’t complete the familiar protocol for inspecting a new Asset and putting it to good use? 

It must be malfunctioning to displease its handler so much. First they had been on a plane, and the Captain signaled to it to come over. Finally, it would get the maintenance it constantly requires; appropriate revision, thorough strip-searching, exposure, touch, and evaluation of its fitness for pleasuring a Captain and his entire team if desired. It is well aware of its need to show how it can perform and how much it needs to be rewarded with physical contact. The Captain began touching it: a thick, muscled arm around its shoulders. Even through the layers of leather and thick kevlar, the Asset could sense the heat waiting for it. It shuddered deeply; there was nothing it wanted more than to serve and be accepted as a valuable tool. Its body was tight as a string and desperate to be put to use. 

But the Captain had pulled away, leaving it bereft and cold, then physically moved away from it. That was a punishment in itself, and the Asset was left reeling. The protocols must have changed beyond its comprehension. It will wait for further commands. 

Again, the Asset finds itself alone in the wake of the Captain’s presence. These must be tests of its endurance. 

It thirsts for more. It can do nothing about it. Seducing a target is well within its repertoire, but it must stand by for a handler's command in silence. Captain Rogers seems like the type to share the Asset with his friends, and it knows his handler has at least one close colleague and friend, an operative named Sam. That must be where the Captain went, to get his friend so both can see what the Asset can do. 

It does not move from the couch, only blinks as necessary. It will prove its worth to Captain Rogers, and will avail itself to further contact. 

The food comes as a shock. The Captain returns carrying at least ten bags and immediately begins laying them out on countertops in the cramped kitchen, refrigerating some items and dividing up a pile of steaming sub sandwiches. He chatters about the food while the Asset prepares itself. 

It has undergone this test before. The more food its stomach can withstand, particularly heavy proteins, the stronger it will become physically and the more it demonstrates loyalty to its new handler. The Asset knows how to acquire solid food and has been trained to swallow large amounts of it without gagging, alongside its training to accommodate large objects in its mouth for extended periods of time. Nevertheless, the task before it is difficult; the size of its stomach has not been altered by Hydra. But it can be trusted to disobey its body’s limits in order to please its handler. 

The test is laid out in front of it on a cheap card table: seven enormous sandwiches in thin white wrappers lined up on four plates for the Asset and just three such sandwiches on a row of paper towels for the Captain. 

The Asset eats. It is seated at a large metal table in an underground lab, being watched through a thick two-way mirror by doctors, technicians, and most importantly, its handler. Fluorescent lights shine harshly from above and reflect off the table below, except for where the food blocks the rays. The Asset eats. Over a loudspeaker, the doctors urge it to stop eating when its stomach is full. In a softer voice, deadly serious, its handler commands it to continue until permission to stop is granted by the appropriate authority. The Asset eats, and eats, and eats. Afterwards, it will be directed to an extreme obstacle course and forced through it at its standard speed no matter how much it hurts to run and jump, flip and fight and kill simulated targets. The last time it completed this test, it trained fresh HYDRA recruits for hours despite the fullness. Their superiors instructed each recruit to attack it as hard as they could, and the Asset was ordered not to fight back. They all went for its stomach. The Asset savored the physical contact through the waves of nausea. It was easy to compartmentalize the two, just like the pain that followed when, one by one, the trainees were rewarded with the Asset’s mouth or ass. The hands touching it were worth the roiling pain in its belly, every time. 

It is almost done with the sixth sandwich; it was full after the third. It thinks about eating enough that Captain Rogers will be pleased with it, and give it the touch it needs to function. Additional scenarios present themselves for its evaluation: choking on food in case the Captain might perform abdominal thrusts on its overstuffed belly; falling out of its chair in case the Captain might help it up; borrowing a knife and accidentally injuring itself in case the Captain might provide first aid. 

The Asset discards these rash options, clearly evidence of dire malfunction. Displeasing its handler is a risk it is not able to take willingly, and each option is more likely to result in mocking, punishment without touch, disgust, and neglect. It will continue waiting. 

~

Steve suppresses his smile when, one by one, Bucky devours the pastrami, chicken parmesan, cubano, cheesesteak, BLT, turkey club, and vegetarian sandwiches. He hadn't been sure which ones Bucky would like, so he ordered the largest sizes of all of them, then tripled the order so they'd have enough for morning or midnight snacking too. He digs in himself, savors the delicious combination of flavors, and wonders if they'll have many leftovers after all. Bucky's appetite is an encouraging sign. He doesn't comment on it so as not to draw attention or interrupt Bucky's first meal back home. There might not be time to get more before the deli closes, but he thinks about going back there tomorrow. 

The sun sets so early these days, and reminds him how they're both exhausted from everything. Too much happened in too short a time. When the table is covered with sandwich wrappers, he motions to Bucky to follow him around the apartment. Opening doors and flipping on lights as they go, he shows Bucky to the guest bedroom and points out the amenities, even though there's not much beyond basic comfort. Bucky gets a strange look on his face when he shows him around the bathroom and provides him a towel, soap, and a toothbrush. He obviously needs time alone to process and rest. Certainly doesn't need Steve fawning over him and making him feel uncomfortable. 

He reminds himself to tone it down, to get himself under control. It’s still early, but he makes himself say goodnight and goes to bed in his own room. After that large a meal, Bucky will probably want to rest and be alone. 

Steve tells himself not to pry, not to overanalyze or surveil. But even from across the hallway with the door closed, he can tell Bucky is still awake in the living room. 

After several sleepless hours that Steve knows are mutual, he gets up to bring Bucky some sleep aids: a calming tea, a sleep mask, and some melatonin from his own stash. He doesn't want Bucky to be embarrassed by his insomnia, so he doesn’t make a big deal of it, walking them both towards the guest room. It’s not exactly the Ritz, so he turns on a lamp to make it look cozier in there. Can Bucky see in the dark like he can? He’s overthinking it, just needs to say what he came in there to say.

“It’s been so hard for you lately. All the changes, new places, and everything.” Steve rubs the back of his neck. "I bet, I mean, it seems like it's probably been awhile since you got some good sleep, and I get that. So I brought you a few things that helped me when I first came to this god-awful century. And please, make yourself at home. What's mine is yours. Here ya go." 

Bucky regards him for about a minute, nodding very slowly. His eyes lower to the sleep mask and stare at it, and his normally silent breath starts speeding up. Maybe he's nervous or self-conscious, remembering other times when Steve came to his bedroom in their youth. Those first nights terrified them both, which made the release all the sweeter. God, Steve loves him so much, would do anything to comfort and caress him that way again. Maybe one day they'll get back to how intimate they used to be. Not anytime soon. He shouldn't even be thinking about Bucky that way anymore, not when he’s so worn out and introverted now. He holds out the sleep mask, which Bucky receives in silence. 

"Hey buddy? You're, uh, looking a little pale there..."

The last thing he expected was for Bucky to hug him, practically falling into his arms, but he can't say it was unwelcome. A bit concerning but Steve holds him tightly, so tightly, rocks their weight back and forth for long minutes, until his breathing evens out and he's pretty sure Bucky has fallen asleep against him. He lowers Bucky to the bed, tucks him in, and decides it's probably okay to kiss him gently on the temple. He softly steps out, closing the door behind him. Guess Bucky didn't need a sleep mask or melatonin after all. 

~

"It's been so hard for you lately." The Asset is accustomed to handlers pointing out its flaws and trying to humiliate it. It might be an indication that the handler wants it to beg for something, maybe to be used, finally, now while its stomach is bulging in pain. The Asset is well acquainted with verbal and physical condescension; why should anyone speak to an object with affection? It's always the nice-sounding handlers who are the most cruel and make pain last the longest. 

Still, it craves touch even when no affection ever comes.

Its handler is still talking and is offering it items to prepare for cryo sleep. After so long without it, the Asset finds it does not want cryo, does not want this type of handling anymore, does not want the cold and dark and blankness with no touch and no purpose. The Asset doesn't see a bite guard or any equipment for a wipe, but there are pills and a blindfold. And it knows what will come when it's blindfolded. It doesn’t want to. The room darkens all of a sudden. 

It can't see. Can't move its mouth; something rubbery crushes against its teeth and gums when it tries. Where is it and what is happening? It's shaking with cold, its stomach hurts, they must have dragged it out of cryo still blinded and... Left it alone? No. It hears the crackle of a stun baton and the safety being flicked off a Glock 9. Many sets of boots echo back from a high ceiling and wide walls, coming towards it; it leaps up and takes off. It is being chased. Gunshots sound around it. Laughter, cruel and sharp. It trips on something and falls forward. They catch it, hold its arms roughly to its sides, cuff it and wrestle it to the hard, cold floor. The Asset is held down, held immobile, bloated stomach crushed against something warm. Can't move, can't speak. At least it is being held. The pain is there but fails to register beyond the warmth of the legs touching its own. Something covers it, blocking its escape; electrodes are placed on its temples. It drifts into sleep. 

~

After helping Bucky into bed for a proper night’s rest, Steve returns to his room and struggles into his own sleep. In dreams, the pit sitting low in his stomach migrates up to his throat; he feels the Winter Soldier’s unforgiving hand choking him to death and gasps awake. No, that’s not how things are right now. He tells himself this, forces his quick heartbeat back to normal, thinks of Bucky sleeping soundly in the room across from his. Steve resolves to make this work and help Bucky however he can.

The next morning, he brainstorms ways to get Bucky involved in normal life somehow, even while they're still laying low and taking it easy. He knows Bucky must be going through a lot these days, definitely has memory issues, and he clearly isn't ready to talk about it. 

Just because things aren't going that great doesn't mean they can't do anything at all until Bucky feels like opening up or asking for some help. He makes a mental list of simple activities they can do indoors, and discards them one by one: too boring, might be patronizing, unclear if Bucky could even enjoy them now. But one idea could work: Bucky always loved dogs, and gentle dogs can be so therapeutic to recovering soldiers. 

Steve arranges to dogsit for a neighbor's small puppy via a dogsitting service, just for a day, in case a foster or therapy dog would be too overwhelming for Bucky. Maybe one day, such a responsibility might motivate him to get up every morning and care for a loving, needy little beast, but Steve doesn't think Bucky is ready for that. He emails Sam and Natasha photos of the puppy and invites them to come play with her if Bucky says it’s okay to have guests over. 

He hasn’t heard any sounds from Bucky’s room yet, so he leaves a note on the kitchen counter and heads out, eating a leftover sandwich on the way. If Bucky feels up to it, they can take the dog to the deli later to restock. 

~

The Asset wakes, leaping out of bed, boots landing heavily on the floor in an unfamiliar environment. It is unrestrained, its body is uninjured, and it catalogues the room around it: temperature normal, no surveillance or electronic signals or sounds other than from the lamp and the hum of a radiator. It is alone, behind an unlocked and unreinforced door. What the hell?

It leaves the room and memories from the night before slam back into its mind. It has a new handler, Captain Rogers; orders to ‘make itself at home’; and has an overwhelming desire to be next to its handler, not left alone again... abandoned... It focuses on its need. It is not a desire; it is a maintenance essential. 

The Asset can wait for hours, for days, for weeks in order to eliminate an elusive target without a trace. It can wait without food or attention, or in cryo for years if that pleases its handlers. It can survive without water even in a combat situation for exactly one week before it collapses, and that is only because its body is so stubborn. It has waited many months to identify a purpose other than simple existence, and to find a handler who can tell it what to do. 

The Asset understands its circumstance now: it is tired of waiting for Captain Rogers to handle it properly and touch it again. 

It thinks about ways to get closer, to insist on touch, even as it knows it cannot insist on anything. It thinks maybe their bodies touched the previous day but it's not sure; the Asset knows it lost time and passed out like a glitching machine. It has only been with its new handler for several days but it craves...something more. Some closeness. That must be the missing piece of this puzzle, the reason why the Asset keeps malfunctioning. It can't remember why it feels this way but its body seems to know. The Asset's physical instincts are rarely wrong, even if its mind is completely unreliable and prone to errors.

Its most striking error was running away. It can't actually remember what possessed it to leave Hydra, to flee and hide wherever it could. It often thinks about going back. The routine was predictable, the pain and scorn were accompanied by plentiful touching, and the orders came clear and detailed. The missions were easy, sometimes too easy. Its entire team knew how to use it and rarely forgot to touch it during punishment, except for its worst crimes. Although it can't remember escaping before, the Asset somehow knows what the punishment would be for being found now, after so long: the isolation chamber and cryo. Solitary confinement is no way to get skin contact, so it stays away. 

Its new handler clearly has no idea what he's doing but the Asset is obligated to be patient with him. So far it has shown only obedience and silent deference. Perhaps the Asset can push a little more, make its maintenance needs more obvious, even if that would be unacceptable to a normal handler. Based on what little it recalls from the night before, its handler seems far from normal.

Its hunger coalesces into a dreamed image: the Captain's broad chest flush with its bare back, iron-strong arms wrapped too-tight around its chest and waist, holding it still and pinned to the floor. Light brown chest hairs sweat-stuck to its skin and thick scratches marking up its thighs. The Asset longs to feel this way again: owned, held down, used, filled up and forced into pleasure. It doesn't have to think or decide anything, just remain compliant and pleasing. The Captain seems like the type not to use any lubrication, and it clenches at the prospect. Worth it, the Asset is so certain it will be worth the burn. It's not sure what he is waiting for; it has a suspicion that no other handler waited this long. 

The Captain is absent now and most likely expects the Asset to be ready upon return. 

Preparations are needed. The Asset identifies a substitute for personal lubricant in the apartment and opens itself up.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve hums softly as he unlocks the apartment door, cradling the fidgety labrador in one arm and the keys in the other. Maybe this wasn’t the smartest idea, but it's frankly adorable already. His sweater is covered with dog hairs and his face with puppy kisses. It’ll be low stress: something tangible to take Bucky’s mind off the past and the uncertain future, focus heavily on a humorous present moment. 

The puppy got in a long run already with Steve before coming home, and her parents will be back from work in seven hours, so they can give the dog back after a full day of play and naptime. Bucky was always good at teaching dogs a few manners and tricks back when they were kids. He can't wait to see Bucky's reaction and, if the puppy doesn’t fall asleep right away, maybe he can take both of them on a walk around the neighborhood. 

~

The Asset takes one look at Captain Rogers standing in the doorway, smiling and holding a dog like he should be holding the Asset. In despair, it falls to its knees. The world around it changes shape. 

Flakes of rust fly into its eyes when the handler tries to kick the Asset through the bars of its cage. The steel-toed boot is much too wide to make it all the way through to its target, but the owner certainly tries. The Asset senses the vibration before the sound assaults its ears. It is Hydra’s dog, neck chained to the lower four corners of an old circus cage by a heavy collar, dark metal with no gleam to it. Its hands are chained to two opposite corners on the cage's ceiling. It's such a stupid dog that it doesn't even have any fur, just naked and scarred flesh and a metal arm. It does not remember why only one of its arms is made of metal. 

The Asset thinks even a kicked and useless dog like itself should get pet sometimes. That must be why it is in the cage now; its handler can read its mind and sense its transgressive thoughts. A dog doesn't have time to think or want things, it just obeys. 

The handler bends down nearly in half, enough to spit directly on the Asset in its cage. “You’re nothing more than a filthy, disobedient attack dog. Good dogs do what they’re told. They don’t bite their handler, no matter what. And they take what they’re given. Shitty dogs like you get kicked.” 

Did it bite its handler? It can't remember. But maybe it did by accident? Truly it's very hungry but it knows the difference between food and a handler. The shouting attracts more figures, real people with dignity enough to stand tall around its cage, stomping on the top of it, kicking the bars and laughing at it. The stun batons come out and jab in; they beat it so bad in the stomach and groin that it pisses blood on the cage floor. 

"Asset! Get your disgusting ass up against the cage. We all know you want to. Promise you'll be better this time." 

The Asset complies. Why wouldn't it? It is finally going to get touched. This is its choice, to obey and to receive touch. It pays no attention to the excruciating contortion required to back itself up to the ice-cold bars while still collared to the floor and cuffed to the cage ceiling, and focuses only on the imminent skin contact. They laugh and spit on it, jab it with the stun baton, kick the bars next to the Asset’s legs to make it clench up, joke loudly about how dirty it is, how robotic, how creepy, how easy. It hides behind its scraggly hair and stares at the floor of the cage. The weighted metal around its neck digs into its collarbones, sharp edges leaving grooves and marks as its body moves according to actions outside its control. It grasps onto the chains attached to its wrist cuffs until its flesh knuckles glow white; the agents like to know it hasn’t passed out. 

Time blurs after the first agent starts. The touching is such a relief that the pain can be overlooked. It floats on what few, muted memories live in its mind, and thinks there once was someone who thought its ass was, what? A tasty peach? A perfect apple? A whole piece of fresh fruit, hard to come by ( _but easy to come on_ , its brain supplies). Definitely not disgusting. Someone small said that, faceless and nameless, who also laughed but not at the Asset. 

It wonders about that small person and that laughter, and behaves like a very good dog.

~

"Bucky!" Eyes wide, Steve lets go of the keys and sinks to the floor after Bucky, still cradling the puppy. "Buck, are you okay? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?" He reaches out but stops before touching Bucky on the shoulder, in case this is a panic attack. 

"I promise!" The man hunched before him screams, fists in his long hair, pulling much too hard. “I promise, I can be a better dog for you. You don’t need to get a new one!” His croaking voice and Steve's heart shatter at the same time. He falls on all fours, presses his face to the floor. “Please, I'm so sorry for being bad. Don’t humiliate me this way. Just break me in properly and get rid of that-- that thing.” He starts hyperventilating and shoves his pants down to his thighs.

The puppy whimpers and struggles against Steve’s arms. 

"Bucky, oh god, what are you doing? You don't, you don't have to--" Steve sets the dog carefully down and ignores how it runs into the living room. In shock, he quickly puts together what is happening but his heart refuses to accept it. It can’t be. He leans down to Bucky's level and tries to stop the tears he knows are coming. "Please, Bucky, get up. Come here, off the floor," he whispers, trying to keep the horror out of his voice. 

Bucky doesn't move, keeps his eyes squeezed shut and pants heavily. Each anguished moan in the back of Bucky's throat pounds against Steve's wall of self-control. He can't stop himself from reaching out again, touching him gently on the shoulder. Bucky leans into the touch and, after a moment, rolls his head over to nuzzle Steve's hand. 

"I promise," Bucky mouths into his hand. Steve's tears fall and don't stop.

"No, Bucky, it's okay, you're okay. You can pull your pants up-- you, we don't need to do that." Steve knows he's not a delicate crier and he couldn't care less except that his voice keeps breaking, and he keeps choking on it as he blabbers to the love of his life moaning on the floor. "Please, Bucky. You're so good, it's all right. Is it okay, me touching you like this?"

"I'm yours to pet, sir." At that, Steve chokes again and yanks his hand away like he touched a live wire. "No!" Lightning fast, Bucky grabs the retreating hand and pulls it back to his head. 

Later, Steve will admit to himself he was temporarily stupified by the soft prickle of Bucky's stubble and the cold metal fingers holding him there. At the moment, though, he's too choked up and scared for Bucky and overwhelmed to do anything other than rub his fingers lightly across Bucky's sweaty face. Steve has no clue what to do now, but Bucky clearly is taking some comfort from Steve's touch. He focuses on breathing in and out. Distantly he can hear sounds of destruction coming from his living room. 

Oh, right, the dog. 

With his other hand, Steve pokes at his phone and calls Natasha. "Hey, uh, there's a situation and. Yes. I really need you to come over. And to take the puppy on a walk. And maybe take her to your place. Yes. Thank you so much, talk soon." 

As if summoned, it bounds over and licks the tears from Steve's face. It sniffs at Bucky, who startles loudly.

"Bucky, hey, it's going to be okay." Steve did not believe that, but maybe if he said it, it would come true. "You're not going anywhere, and I'll send the dog away for now. Can you pull your pants back up for me? Please." He gets up to close the poor dog into the bathroom for now. He’ll deal with the damage later. 

"You can't handle me," Bucky sobs out, nails scratching at the floor and his own neck in anguish. 

"No! I can, Buck, I can do this. I swear, I'll handle anything you give me." Steve reaches out his other hand to rub Bucky’s shoulder, and gets an immediate reaction: practically all of Bucky’s weight pressing tight against his body, hands grasping the fabric. 

With Bucky's face temporarily buried in his sweater, Steve takes five breaths to dig his mind out of its despair spiral and get himself together. “Bucky? Can you tell me what you’re thinking right now? Anything, I just need a clue.” 

“Thank you, sir. For touching.” Slow, stilted words emerge from between the fibers of Steve’s sweater. The skin beneath it is getting wet from the heavy breathing through it. The threadbare fringe could tear any minute with the force of Bucky’s metal hand. “What is my mission?” 

“Your-- your mission?” Oh god. Think, Rogers. How could he have completely misread every signal from Bucky about what was going on from his perspective? “Right. Give me one second.” Steve pats Bucky on the shoulder and climbs off the floor. He’s got a plan.

~

The Asset has no frame of reference for what happens next. It’s clearly not sensory deprivation; it is surrounded by sensory input and none of it hurts. Maybe the hurt will come after? It is picked up off the floor by warm hands and firm arms, its pants pulled up from around its thighs, and relocated gently to the couch. And then it is wrapped up tightly, so it cannot move its arms or legs. Perhaps it will be left here for days, weeks. Sometimes handlers like to restrain it in novel ways before using its mouth, punishing it, or engaging in other recreational activities. It could easily escape but its handler clearly wants it to remain still. Whatever is happening, it is being handled now, being given a mission, and is not afraid to face the consequences of its previous actions.

The Captain stands above it, arms folded, surveying his handiwork. “Bucky. I need you to be honest with me, please. What are you thinking?”

“Sir. This... is my mission?” The Asset asks from under three layers of blankets, at least one heavily weighted. Its hands stick out of the top of the blankets, near its sternum. “I’m unarmed on my mission.”

Its handler considers and nods. “That won’t do. Hang tight.” He leaves the Asset alone in its soft restraints and disappears into the kitchen, coming back with a steak knife. He places it in the Asset’s hands. “What’s your status now?”

The Asset reports its status: functional. Uninjured. Temperature acceptable. Closer proximity to handler required. Additional weapons required. It pauses, then adds: Physical contact required.

~

_Handler_ , Bucky just called him. Steve suppresses the urge to groan out loud at himself, even if just to let out the tension. He’s had the past five minutes to come to terms with his reality and this is the final blow: his rules of hospitality mean nothing, his efforts at comfort have been meaningless, and his best friend is suffering immensely. His body feels drained by the adrenaline come-down from crying and seeing Bucky ass-up, squirming on the floor in misery. But he can’t turn off how he’s still on high-alert and ready to give Bucky whatever he needs. And Bucky... he’s practically a robot who, despite all his communication issues, is explicitly asking for touch. And just like the knife, even if it’s a bad idea, Steve is going to give it to him. 

He unfolds his arms, a slow movement so as not to alarm Bucky. “Hey. Thank you for letting me know. Look, I need you to tell me right away if you don’t like this,” Steve says softly. He sits on the couch near Bucky’s head and carefully lifts Bucky’s upper body into his own lap, holding his hands a few inches away in case he needs to reverse course quickly. 

But Bucky just hums and closes his eyes, lets his head loll all the way back on Steve’s thigh. Steve stares down in surprise at how fully his scarred neck is exposed, and watches his grip around the steak knife relax minutely.

“Okay.” Steve wills his body to relax and forces himself to take a few slow breaths. “Okay, good. Is this sufficient physical contact?”

“It’s.” The skin around Bucky’s eyes tightens in a grimace, like he has to force himself to voice whatever’s next. Steve’s both terrified and desperate to know what words will finally come out. “Insufficient. Sir.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” Steve can finally breathe again. “You’re doing great. Your ongoing feedback is critical to this mission's success, especially regarding physical contact.” Steve reaches out to rest the backs of his fingers on Bucky’s jaw and experimentally runs them down the side of Bucky’s neck. The pulse there beats steadily, and Bucky’s mouth opens. A soft sound emerges from deep in his throat. 

Testing, Steve lifts his other hand and gently pets Bucky’s hair, which sorely needs to be brushed. “And how is this? Better?” 

Bucky gives a barely perceptible nod. It’s enough. Steve gets to work combing his hair out with his fingers, as gently as humanly possible. 

~

Hands in its hair, rubbing, petting, combing. The Asset slips into a memory. 

The hands yank, tug, drag it across the floor by its hair and make its body leave a bloody streak across the rough cement. It is being punished for not climbing into the cryo tube fast enough, is being manhandled into it instead. It doesn’t want to go. The pain in its scalp will fade but burns furiously now. It could try to get away, would easily succeed, but it is not allowed to displease its handler. 

No, these hands are gentle, massaging its scalp. Its new handler’s name is Steve...

The hands hold the Asset up by its long hair and, gloved with thick plastic, punch it in the face until it gives a satisfactory mission report. But it’s an impossible task to complete. The mission was botched: the Asset hit the target and the bullet passed directly into the valuable source of intel standing behind it, two dead, interrogation forfeit. It relaxes, lets its body absorb another impact, painful but necessary touch to remind it to behave and shoot better. The punch comes racing towards its eyes.

No. That’s wrong. The hands are combing out tangles, the soft voice remarks that the Asset will need conditioner to keep it looking nice. The Asset doesn’t think it can look nice; when was the last time it did? This handler will keep it, he’s saying right now that it will be kept up and kept close, that it’s being so good right now... 

The hands slip down to its neck and shoulders, and the Asset can’t suppress a moan of relief. The hands don’t squeeze, try to crush its windpipe, dig into its flesh with nails or pinches. They rest, hold, caress its hands still holding its weapon for the mission, slide over the blankets to feel the shape of its arms beneath. Its handler is talking, but it can’t hear over the feeling of being stroked without being hurt. 

It makes an effort to listen. It strains and separates itself from its body, like it so often has. The handler is explaining that it will have to teach Steve how to handle it properly. It can invent new protocols and rules especially for touching. 

It opens its eyes and studies its handler’s face. This information sounds like a trick, so it will be wary of what changes might come tomorrow. But for now, it savors the warm touch and accepts whatever the handler offers it. 

~

Never in a million years would Bucky, or at least the Bucky from before the War, say that Steve had the capacity to be tender or sweet. Steve tells himself this, and prays that maybe one day the two of them will laugh about this moment, ideally at Steve’s expense and not Bucky’s. Using the most tender voice he can summon, Steve briefs Bucky on his new mission: to tell him whenever he has a want or need, no matter what kind, if he wants Steve’s help with it. Bucky nods into the hands holding him, and blissfully ignores the whining coming from the hall bathroom.

Natasha is on her way and will know what to do. Hell, Steve might be the one sent away with the dog, but he’ll do whatever needs to be done to help Bucky. This is not going to be easy, but at least now Steve knows they’ll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was trashy! Hope you enjoyed (at least the end <3). 
> 
> Spoiler-y summary: Present-day Bucky is experiencing the world as the robotic Asset and thinks Steve is his new handler. Bucky experiences multiple flashbacks to terrible things done to him by Hydra in the past, including rape, captivity, all kinds of abuse. Present-day Bucky doesn't have anything bad happen to him in the story, but he thinks bad things are imminent, including with Steve. Steve has some of his own trauma to deal with. Steve has only good intentions towards Bucky but is painfully naive about Bucky's mental state until Bucky breaks down in front of him. Bucky remembers being treated like an unloved dog. A dog is involved in the present but nothing bad happens to the dog. The story resolves with cuddles and Steve realizing how much help Bucky actually needs to recover. Natasha, who possesses more brain cells, arrives to help clean up their psychological mess.


End file.
